


Ariel

by bisexualjesse



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Night Terrors, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:09:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25060651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualjesse/pseuds/bisexualjesse
Summary: In his dreams, Jesse kills Gale over and over again.
Relationships: Mike Ehrmantraut & Jesse Pinkman
Comments: 12
Kudos: 48





	Ariel

In his dreams, Jesse kills Gale over and over again.

Sometimes, it happens just as it actually did, down to the littlest details. Others, Jesse’s carrying a knife instead of a gun, or nothing at all. Sometimes he breaks down the door instead of knocking, and Gale begs for his life for a lot longer before he’s finally done. But it always ends the same way.

One time, the gun jams when he pulls the trigger and Jesse hits him with it. It takes a long time, cracking someone’s skull, way longer than movies make it look. Jesse grips the handle of the gun hard enough that his knuckles ache, and blood splatters everywhere, all over his face and the floor and the furniture, until Gale goes silent and his body goes still.

He jolts awake with Gale’s blood on his face, sitting up abruptly on the bed. His hands try to scrub the blood off only to find it clinging tightly to his skin. His heart pounds way too hard against his ribcage, the sticky liquid lingering on his skin bringing up memories of Gale’s lifeless body and he has to get this off, he has to get it off _right now_.

Jesse stumbles out of bed and drags himself to the bathroom. The bright fluorescent light is blinding for a moment when he turns it on, and he struggles to study his reflection in the mirror. He can’t see the blood, but he can _feel_ it, warm and sticky on his skin, and that’s enough proof to him, right now, that it’s there. Washing his face on the sink with trembling hands doesn’t help much; if only, it seems to thicken the blood somehow, spreading it even further through his face, dripping down his neck and chest and into the tiles.

His breathing is almost as quick as his heartbeats now, air leaving his lungs and rapid gasps that he can’t seem to be able to stop or control. He once again runs his trembling hands through the skin of his face, scrubbing over it roughly, uselessly. There’s blood on his hands too, under his fingernails, down his forearms.

Jesse only barely hesitates before stripping off his shirt and climbing into the bathtub, still in his boxers. It’s not the same tub he’d brought Emilio’s body to, the one that had been replaced when his parents rebuilt the house, but it still flashes with the image of flesh dissolving in acid as soon as Jesse gets in. The smell rising up the tub feels so real it might as well be. Blood and rotting flesh and chemicals. Bile rises up his throat, and Jesse somehow manages to swallow it down as he fumbles to turn the shower on.

The stream of water is scalding hot as it hits the top of his head and rolls down his bare back. Jesse falls to his knees, arms wrapping around himself as his skin reddens. He breathes a sigh of relief as the blood finally, _finally_ starts washing off. The water is hot, burning his skin as it pours down and fills the bathroom with steam, but God, does it feel good — a searing, cleansing pain.

It’s not enough, though; and as his body gets used to the hot spray of water, the feeling of blood sticking to his skin creeps back in. “No,” he breathes, hands scrubbing at his arms again. “Come on. Fuck, _come on_.”

He scrubs harder and harder at his arms, his face, chest, thighs, anywhere he can reach. He feels like a wild animal, no longer in control of his own body. He drags his fingernails into his cheeks as hard as he can, digs and digs until he breaks skin. He does the same to his forearms, pressing in so hard the skin splits, droplets of blood that he’s quick to rub away rushing up. 

“Pinkman?”

The voice startles him so badly his heart skips a beat, like he’s been caught doing something wrong. Mike stands in the doorway; his voice blunt like it always is, but there’s the slightest hint of concern in his eyes. The sight of him snaps Jesse back to reality. His hands pause their scrubbing at the blood — its presence feels more distant now, although not gone —, but his breathing is still quick and erratic as he looks up at Mike.

He should say something, but he doubts he’d be able to get any words out. So he stares ahead instead, his whole body trembling like the spray of water he’s under is ice cold instead of scalding.

The stream of water stops, and a towel falls over his shoulders. Jesse looks up at Mike, eyes haunted and confused. God, he can still feel the blood. His hands ache to scrub it clean again, but Mike’s gaze on him makes him stop.

“Get dressed, kid.” It feels like an eternity before Mike finally says something. “I’ll be downstairs.”

It takes Jesse a good fifteen minutes to drag himself out of the tub and change into dry clothes. He becomes more aware of the stinging on his skin from where he’d scratched and burned himself as his breathing evens out. He considers going back to bed, just hiding under the covers until Mike gets the message and leaves, but the thought of falling asleep again terrifies him. So he makes his way downstairs only to find Mike sitting on the futon in the living room, a small first-aid kit and two steaming mugs over the coffee table.

“What are you doing here?” is what Jesse says, standing a few feet from the futon. “Were you spying on me again?”

“Let’s just say Fring’s very invested in your sobriety.” Mike doesn’t even look at him, taking a sip of whatever’s in one of the mugs. “Have a seat.”

It stings, the fact that Mike and Gus are still suspicious that he’s using or hosting another party at his place, even after all those dead drops with Mike when he’d thought he’d been proving his worth. Still, he does as he’s told and takes a seat next to Mike, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around himself.

He watches, silent, as Mike rummages through the first-aid kid and dabs something onto a cotton pad. Winces when it comes into contact with the broken skin of his cheek, flinching away from Mike. “It’s just a few scrapes,” he grumbles.

“Just cleaning up the blood.” The damp cotton is back at Jesse’s face; not rough, but firm.

Mike doesn’t ask what the fuck he was doing, doesn’t say anything whatsoever as he cleans up the scratches and soothes the burns on Jesse’s face, which Jesse’s grateful for. But there’s a twinge of disappointment behind the relief, something inside of him that wants to be pressed to talk about it so he has to talk to _someone_ , get it off his system.

“I— I don’t know what—” He begins, the words getting stuck in his throat and refusing to leave in a coherent sentence. He takes a deep breath. “I know this looks crazy, but I swear I’m not—”

“I know you’re not.” Mike says. “Nightmares, is it?”

Jesse’s face must look amusingly surprised as he stares at Mike, because he thinks he sees a hint of what could be the beginnings of a smile in Mike’s lips. “You fell asleep during our last drop,” Mike reminds him. Jesse doesn’t remember the dream, but he remembers waking up with a start on the passenger seat, his heart pounding against his ribcage. “It’s Gale, right?”

Jesse nods, can’t help the wave of embarrassment that hits him at his vulnerability. “Did I talk in my sleep?”

“A little.” Mike pushes the extra mug on the coffee table towards him once he’s done with Jesse’s wounds. Coffee. Not like Jesse’s planning on going back to sleep any time soon. He takes a small sip, the drink cooled down just enough that it’s not too hot to enjoy. He can taste a little bit of sugar.

“It’s not a big deal,” Jesse says, even though it’s a lie. Part of him hopes Mike calls him out on it.

But he doesn’t. There’s a beat of silence, and Jesse sips on his coffee to fill in the time. This isn’t like the crushing silence when he’s alone with his thoughts, desperate to fill it in with any sounds before his head starts talking too loud. There’s something comforting about having someone else’s presence around; specially Mike’s.

“So why the scratching, though?” Mike asks.

Jesse stares at the remaining black liquid in the mug for a moment. “There was blood on my face. I kept trying to wash it off, but…” He trails off. Mike knows what happened. “ _His blood.”_

Mike hums in understanding, setting his half-empty mug over the coffee table. “I remember when my son was a little older than you. We were both cops back in Philly. Halloween night, and he watches someone die for the first time. Guy’s bleeding out on the floor, and his little girl’s crying, begging him to get up. She was dressed like that mermaid; the redhead." 

“Ariel,” Jesse nods slowly, his attention on Mike’s every word. The story brings a chill down his spine, the way Jesse can visualize everything in his mind even though Mike’s only giving him the bare essentials.

“Yeah. Ariel.” A small nod. “He couldn’t sleep a full night for weeks after that. Night terrors. He said he didn’t remember the dead guy’s face, but he always saw the little girl.” 

Jesse snorts humorlessly; not because he’s amused, but because he doesn’t quite know how else to react. “Did your son also shoot little Ariel in the face?” 

Mike sighs. “Kid, what’s done is done. Sitting around and feeling sorry for yourself won’t change anything.” 

“Well, what _can_ I do? I killed the guy. I can’t even say it was self-defense. The meanest thing he’s probably ever done in his life was killing a plant because he gave it too much water.” 

“He knew the risks when we took the job. Just like the rest of us.” 

Jesse sighs in defeat, and he doesn’t know if it’s because Mike has a point or because he’s too tired to argue. He downs the rest of his coffee, stares at the bottom of the mug for a long moment. 

“Did you ever—” He clears his throat, finally looking back over at Mike. “I mean, when you killed someone for the first time, did you… how…?” 

The look on Mike’s face is hard to read. It’s frustrating, sometimes, to never be able to guess what he’s thinking or feeling; but there’s comfort to the calm he seems to always emanate. 

“It’s a long story that you probably don’t wanna hear about.” 

Jesse gives a small nod. “Okay. But, I mean— did you freak out too?” 

Mike’s silent for so long Jesse wonders if he’s going to answer at all, or if this is his way of dropping the subject. He doesn’t know what kind of answer he’s expecting; something to guide him, or merely a reassurance. 

“No.” It’s simple, short. Mike grabs both of the empty mugs on the coffee table and stands up. “I gotta go.” 

“You could stay a little longer.” There’s a near desperate request in his tone that Jesse tries to conceal. He can’t bear to be alone again tonight, the mere thought of it making him uneasy. “I mean, you were gonna spend the whole night keeping watch over me anyway, right? Not like you have anywhere else to go.” 

Mike stares at him for a beat before moving to the kitchen without a word, leaving the mugs over the sink. Jesse stares at the black screen of the TV, at the recently painted walls, expecting to hear the front door closing shut at any second. 

Instead, he hears the hum of the coffee machine starting up again. And, for the first time tonight, Jesse allows himself to breathe a small, relieved sigh. 


End file.
